Just like you said it would be, life goes easy on me, most of the time. Damien Rice, you genius, you.

Life does go easy on me. A million million coincidences linked and strung into a scarlet chain brought us together, and you’ve been a constant source of comfort and joy ever since. I won’t pretend it’s been effortless, but through it all, I knew you were worth it. We’re like magnets, you know? Put two close enough together and they start racing towards each other. The moment they stick, they’re near impossible to separate and they might as well be a single solid block. Only six months have passed since our first date, but like magnets, we’re inseparable.

Your touch is fire to my coal-chamber heart, your laugh irresistible music to my ears. I see a happy future in you, my baby, and I hope to reach it with you bravely, together.

Happy half-year, baby. I only hope I can give you the same kind of joy you bring to me every time I’m around you. Chingy x Orizhinal forever.

Another girl has left my side. I’m tempted to say I’m never lucky in love, but I’m not here to mope. I’m here because we finally closed the book. How many chapters can one write with 5 years of material? A good story, in any case. A sweet story, a sad story. A story we once thought eternal. I smile at our own naïveté. It is nothing to be ashamed of, for love is not love if it has no faith in itself.

I want to write something down, I want to pour my feelings, my memories, my lessons, all of the beautiful gems we collected over the years, into my final dedication to you. I want to craft us something to last for the rest of our lives, a beacon of hope, a warning or simply a meeting place where we can rest and look upon the fading beauty of bygone times.

Where do I start? I remember the first day. You were heading somewhere, you had Purpose. You also had the cutest face I’d ever seen. Big eyes, button nose, just the tiniest bit chubby. I was smitten.

I remember the first time I talked to you. First floor of the library. You were studying for a physics class. What luck that you weren’t alone! Our mutual friend K sat opposite you, so I sat down next to him and started talking. I had never done a thing like that before, but I’m glad the ice was broken that day.

I remember going to that fast food place and getting you the first soft toy I ever got you. A lion with a soccer jersey. 2006 World Cup, if I’m not mistaken. I surprised you, huh?

I remember going absolutely crazy about you in the following months, and only that night, the last night I really spent with you, did you manage to put into words that “that” was precisely what you love and hate about me. I agreed to dance on stage because you agreed to dance on stage, but you didn’t dance with me. Do you know how sharp the prick of jealousy was the night we performed our respective acts? You never knew I was looking for you to give you some encouragement, only to find that you had found it elsewhere. THAT was why our paths diverged for a time.

I didn’t speak to you much for the three months we were otherwise engaged, then I heard that you were single again. Coincidentally, not long after, so was I. You stopped avoiding me, too. It wasn’t easy to start our relationship, though. I’m sorry I broke up with you so soon after we first began dating. Do you know, at that time, every relationship I had ever left was not of my own volition? Breaking up with you because you were just a bit demanding was my attempt to break that trend. I’m really sorry. I didn’t understand you then. But I understood the tears the next day, and I said to myself what I never stopped saying from that day onward – that you are worth it. And then we started dancing for real.

I know I dropped the ball more than once, but you were patient. You were wiser than you know. I can’t explain any clearer than that, but trust me, you were. “People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.” – Maya Angelou

So one way or another we loved our way to the US of A. I remember the first time I visited UWM. It was winter, and the lake had frozen over. All bundled up in our winter jackets, hand in hand, shuffling across the ice… It was winter, but I was never warmer. We fell into a sort of routine – one of us would make that 3 hour bus ride to visit the other every week or two. As a result, I felt like I lived on two campuses the whole time. Potbelly sandwiches for breakfast, the Walgreens on the corner of State and Lake, Bascom Hill, and Memorial Union, of course. At 2 in the morning, invariably. Alone, because though I wished you could have waited with me, I agreed that it wasn’t safe and you would be tired. I guess talking about UWM isn’t that exciting, you spent more time there than I did, you have your own memories of the place. One final memory though, one thing I hope you don’t forget, because I never will. That night, in the middle of that square right before State Street, the one with the tiny fountain, the little clocktower, remember? I don’t remember why we were out, but it was nice weather, and we were strolling quite leisurely. Then I looked up, and I noticed a pattern of stars that I had only ever seen before in books as illustrations. That was the first time we saw the Ursa Major constellation, the Big Dipper in the sky. That was quite magical for me, and I know you shared some of that feeling. I will always associate the Big Dipper with that first time, with you by my side.

Chicago deserves a paragraph, too, in this mini memoir. You’d always arrive at O’Hare, because that’s as far as the buses from Wisconsin went. I’d be there to meet you, and we’d spend the next hour or so on the L getting to my place. Sometimes you’d talk, mostly you’d be tired, and lie your head on my shoulder while you rested. You could never sleep on moving vehicles like other people do, so tired you would stay until we arrived at where I lived. You put up with a lot of walking back in the day. Thank you, dear. As soon as we could, though, we were in the city. Chicago! Where we dined in the Rainforest and skated in the park with the giant chrome bean and watched Wicked on stage and crept about the Undercity and explored the Botanic Gardens…

We had some fights, of course. I remember the time I threw the blue dog/pig soft toy out the 20-something floor window, and you, in response, threw the pack of Magic cards a friend had given me after it. I have no idea what that was about now. I remember the time you packed up in silence and walked out of the house without a word, and I had to chase you down and convince you to stay. I do remember what that was about. The last fight I remember, or care to remember, is marked right there in your apartment. You probably don’t even see it now. Not so much a fight as a venting of frustration on my part. Hmm, that reminds me of another thing I broke in frustration. Is that why you gave up? Because I would break things? But I fixed them… I fixed them :(

I skipped a bit there. The broken wall didn’t happen until much later, after you moved to Hartford and I couldn’t find a job. But then, there’s not much to tell. I thought we had some happy moments in that last year, but I was just blind. I won’t say anything further, and you can rest assured that regrets will tinge my memories of that time. I don’t know if you’ll ever remember my presence in Hartford with anything but worry and frustration. And yet I thought when you smiled, things were alright. I never realized you were putting on a brave face.

Dear, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the heartache I put you through, I’m sorry we didn’t turn out the way you hoped, that I was stubborn. I’m almost there, almost ready to move on, and I think in a few weeks I won’t think of you with pain any more. I liked the last time we were out, you know, at Paradigm. You fit me like an old leather jacket. Instantly comfortable, warm, familiar. I can say with complete honesty, being with you is as natural as breathing to me. But you are gone now. Who knows if we’ll ever truly meet again, with our minds linked like our hands one were, unconsciously moving to the same tune. I can only hope to build a love as true as ours was, but stronger yet.

He stole your heart with words alone… I just can’t get over that. Were you eager to give love then, or was he really, really, really good? It annoys me. Irritates like an unscratchable itch, because we cannot help but compare. Even when you don’t, I do, sometimes. What if I’m doing what he did, only not half as good?

To be perfectly honest, it scares me too, a little. It makes me uneasy, not knowing what places he occupies in your heart. What if I trigger some emotional land mines? Will I lose you? It won’t stop me, but it does make me uneasy.

He stole your heart with words alone… and then he broke it! That makes me furious. It seems callous, as if he didn’t appreciate what a precious gift he had. If he did, then it was as cruel as crushing a butterfly in his fist. You described, once, how lost you became when he left, and thinking of it breaks my heart. There is injustice here, and I should hope to always rage at it.

He stole your heart, the thief.
He broke it, the murderer.
And I? I am a generous fool, hoping you’ll give your heart in return for mine.
You know nothing of my fear.

Do you see the shadow of me in the setting sun that’s always just about to leave but greets you as you wake?

If only we were bolder, or perhaps more desperate, older, maybe then, the risk, we’d take. You were right. The time was wrong.

You are the most generous of angels, don’t you know? You sold your priceless love for a loveless life.

I wish you didn’t have to, but I know you almost have no choice. Almost. But the strength it takes to break those chains is not possible with your hands alone. Find the right people to help. They might not stay, but they can give you tools, weapons to fight those who would push you down where you don’t belong.

You need to ask for the right things: education, property, hard cash. You are the most generous of angels, you were meant to fly higher than all the rest. But remember, always, always remember what that money is for. It is not for today, it is not for tomorrow. It is for the rest of your life. Start a business, a good job, something that you can use to support yourself.

Other girls take the money for bags and shoes and cars and phones, for drinks and dice or poker cards. Maybe they think this shows they are better than the others. Bullshit. When you walk out of the bar knowing you never have to come back and meet another lady drink quota, you will wear a dress more beautiful, more valuable than any of them will ever know. You will walk out wearing pride and dignity. So work toward that.

It’s 5:17 AM and I just had a sort of nightmare. I say “sort of” because it isn’t what I would consider a typical nightmare, where things turn to slush and monsters and carnage. In my nightmare, I was being hunted. I don’t know why. Perhaps I had seen something, or angered someone. Nobody knows how a nightmare starts, anyway. So I had a group of assassins on my tail. Somehow, I managed to evade them and take a flight somewhere to attend some fancy family dinner. It was someone’s home in some rich part of the country, that’s all I know. I had some cousins there, though I didn’t see their faces. Right after we started to eat, I believe Grandma’s phone rang. (real grandma passed away, was never rich, by the way.) Immediately I suspected that it was an assassin. I got up to leave. They had known about my situation, and loudly encouraged me to take my trouble elsewhere. Family, huh? So I ran, but it was too late, the assassin had entered, and seen me. I ran into the Ladies’ thinking I could buy some time. I remember trying to call the one I love. J. I remember thinking I didn’t want to die without telling her one last time that I loved her. Before I could, though, I heard sounds of pain, and somehow knew that the assassin had come into the restroom and vented his anger on some innocent woman. I ran while he was enjoying his horrible deed. The last thing I remember was that I was running, running, running.

I have not tried very hard to capture the fear of the situation, because I wanted to get the bare bones down before they evaporated. I also mainly wanted to ask: what does this mean?

I think of Descartes lately. Of the believability of the world around us. How do I know that what I see or hear is real? Not the inanimate objects, no. Trees, plastic, rock, animals, I can believe they’re real. When I shake a tree, its leaves fall, when I microwave a plate, it heats up, when I kick a rock, it follows a more or less predictable path through the air to land some distance away. Predictability, consistency. That is why I can believe in their existence. But humans? No. Strictly speaking, nobody can be trusted. The human mind is truly powerful, because it can override, amplify or dampen any instinctive response. It can admit or deny anything without regard for the truth of the statement. And who decides what is truth? Unless everything is converted to an absolute numerical scale, all that we are expressing is opinion. As long as most people share your opinion, all is well and good. As long as your significant other shares your opinion, all is well and good. The best we can hope for is that those opinions don’t change. The important ones shouldn’t. But we convey our opinions through words and actions, both of which are under the control of the mind, which can lie, or tell half-truth, or truth which later becomes untruth. When you cannot trust that the opinions others are sharing are consistent, what are you left with? Yourself, alone, to bear the full force of the consequences of any action. And if I lived on love and goodwill, if the compliments I paid are paid for, I wouldn’t trust me. I may like me, but it is easy to like and be liked. Capisce?

I am feeling squeezed. Like iron bands are clamped around my chest and tightening. I am also feeling distinctly anxious. I have a feeling the two phenomena are linked. Where is all this anxiety coming from? Something is bothering me but I, of all people, can’t pinpoint the cause. It’s like having a mental itch. Obviously, I haven’t been scratching the right places. Could it be that I’m bothered by my increasing insignificance? Could it be that I’m bothered by the list of things I should do but haven’t gotten around to? Whatever. These musings are pointless. Act! Easier said than done. Meanwhile, I shall suffer this anxious itch.

It starts, as it often does, with loneliness. I flew, once, and now I run. Now and then, someone runs with me. I enjoy, and seek, her company. I should have put on the brakes earlier. I saw what was happening, but spending time with her was just so sweet. She and I have so much in common, and I was a little lost. Life would probably have been unbearable without her weekly companionship. Life in the future will be more unbearable now. A little or a lot? Time will tell.

It hurts more than I thought it would. It hurts because she’s hurt. But compared to her pain, this is nothing. I was once in her shoes, not long ago. I never told her how hard I cried for the other girl, how I drove with blurred vision for weeks as the radio played love song after love song, sometimes screaming the lyrics, sometimes singing softly, sometimes just listening. Telling people these things usually serves no purpose. If you’re reading though, maybe you will understand my loneliness.

She is like the other girl in some ways. No girl likes to hear this but I believe each of us has an ideal friend/partner/mate and we are consistently drawn to those people who embody certain qualities of the ideal. From love to love, from friendship to friendship, we always look for people who share similar qualities. She is like the other girl, but not the other girl, and it is with that other girl that my heart still lies. I could lie to myself and put her behind me but I don’t want to let go because despite what she said to me, despite the lack of a label, I know she feels… something for me, and I love her, still. I find myself smiling simply listening to her breathing on the phone. I know, in my heart of hearts, that I could build a new home for myself with the girl whose heart I just broke. All that would take is time. I know she would work just as hard as I would once we committed to it. I know this, but more importantly, I know that being with her would be all too comfortable. That’s for when I’m in my fifties, not now.

I’d thought long and hard about my choice in the weeks before the question was brought up. I’d decided on my course before I met her to talk. In retrospect, that was unfair to her. It must have stung like the sharpest of slaps as she heard, for the first time, the words I’d thought about for a long time. Too slowly, I realized that when she said “take a chance”, she was trembling on the edge, further than she had ever gone before. And I refused her. ARGH. I know nothing of her heart, really. For all our ability to make each other smile, I still know nothing. I was an insensitive bastard, and no amount of explanation or remorse can undo the hurt I unleashed. I am horrified and disgusted by that. I hope neither of us ever have to go through that again.

She is keeping busy, and I am temporarily banned from contact with her. I am distressed, and true to my essence as an introvert, I have turned inward. I may have friends, but few, very very few, that I don’t tire of meeting frequently, that I can be absolutely natural with, that I wish were family. She is one such friend, but tonight, as for many days and nights to come, she has put her back to me, and I am temporarily the loneliest man in the world.

Am I one? I used to think that I was not, because I was a bookworm, as a kid. Never liked rough and tumble. Then I discovered video games, and I always picked the agile, solitary character to play, typically a hunter, rogue or assassin, that sort of thing. Maybe that’s who I’ve always been. The one who doesn’t have the strength to be a warrior, nor the dedication and intellect to be a mage, but cunning and quick, able to dodge the worst and take down great adversaries with a few well-placed attacks. Unlike the mage, content to stay alone in an ivory tower, studying his art, I, the rogue, spend time at the local taverns, like the warrior, but while the warrior boasts of his strength and issues challenges to assert his superiority, I listen to the gossip, absorbing whatever information best serves my interests. I read people like a mage reads arcane scrolls. Both take time and careful study, but while a mage learns to will magic to do his bidding, I learn to subtly push people’s buttons. But for the most part, I don’t enjoy their company. I am most comfortable in the company of my fellow rogues, with them I am all goodwill and candor. I have lost track of my thoughts, but no matter. I know, have always known, where I belong.